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Father, My Father—Chapter 25 (Blast From the Past)
5 October 1948
Eileen used to like Transfigurations class. Admittedly, Potions was her favourite, but she tried hard and did well in all her studies…at least she used to, before her life fell to scandalous shambles around her. The Hogwarts teachers weren't making it any easier on her, the way they ignored the Gryffindor girls and their biting remarks on a regular basis. She'd thought they might stop it at first, though she'd been proven wrong time and again, and she had to wonder if it was because she was a Slytherin. The teachers made a point of singling out the Slytherin students who misbehaved, and a singular point of ignoring the transgressions of the Gryffindors altogether. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right, and if she had a way to change it she would. She could hardly expect her classmates to be at her beck and call, or even in the vicinity all the time, leaving her wholly vulnerable. Only in her fourth year, did she really have three more years of this hell to look forward to?
Miss Ollerton brings a dowry of half a million galleons to the table, not a small sum by any account, though dwarfed by the Malfoy fortune. Whilst quite anonymous in Britain until three months ago, Thalia is from our own Southampton, schooled at Hogwarts and later at the Olympia School for Witches and Wizards in America. It just goes to show that from humble beginnings a star can rise; this young lady is about to cause a stir of massive proportions by marrying the most eligible bachelor in England. Our hearts go out to all those witches pining after Mister Abraxas Malfoy—
"Aren't you supposed to be doing your work?" snapped Eileen icily, glaring at the witch holding a copy of the Daily Prophet and reading aloud to all those around her.
"That's not your business," retorted the girl, turning up her nose. "I get excellent marks in this class."
"Because the professor was a Gryffindork like you," Eileen muttered under her breath.
"Speak up, Prince," laughed the girl, egged on by the girl on her other side. "Maybe he dumped you for a girl that can speak properly."
"Maybe if you moved to America for a while your old beau would like you better," giggled another.
"Are you invited to the wedding?" sniped another.
From the front of the class came the professor's voice, loud enough to drown out their catty whispers. "Young ladies, I don't see any quills turning into pitchforks. Mr. Nilley here has en excellent example if you need assistance." He held up a long wooden handle such as a broom might offer, with the end capped by four long, thin, dangerous and sharp looking metal spikes.
The girls hurriedly turned back to their work, waving and jerking their wands to no avail. On Eileen's other side, her Slytherin companion made one final wave of his wand and a brand new pitchfork appeared in his hand, its lengthy, pointed prongs clanking onto the stone floor. He handed it to Eileen, smirking.
"The prong ends go in first. If necessary, pull it out and jam it down again."
Laughing, Eileen replied, "Perhaps later. A bit messy, what with the all the blood splattered on the floor."
"Ah, yes, there is that," he acknowledged, nodding. "And the witness factor. But you'd be doing the world a service, getting rid of some of those blasted Gryffs. They can't convict you for that."
They laughed again, sneering over at the girls trying to transfigure their quills.
"Mr. Blanchard, Miss Prince, back to work, please," said Dumbledore, now only steps away as he moved on by, examining the efforts of his students.
Blanchard rolled his eyes and mouthed the words 'How typical', then retrieved his pitchfork to transform it back to a quill.
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John looked up from the volume in front of him on the expansive library table. It hadn't yet occurred to him to wonder why a seemingly normal household would have such an enormous library collection, but then he'd never really lived in a normal home and thus had no true basis for comparison. What struck him as odd was the fact that every book he'd touched so far spoke of witches and wizards, or was written by someone claiming to be a warlock or some such hooey. It didn't matter—story books, encyclopedias, history texts—everything came back to witches and wizards. There were even spell books and potions books, which he'd found completely useless for himself. He wasn't one of them, despite his current appearance.
Across the room at the floor-to-ceiling windows stood Horatio, staring out at the ocean. He started slightly when John-Abraxas abruptly broke into his thoughts.
"Father, may I ask you a question?"
Without turning from the window, Horatio replied, "That depends upon the question."
It was now or never. Father was in a good mood…or at least not in a bad one. "Did you—are you—I," stammered the young man, gulping whilst wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Nonetheless, his desire to know overrode self-preservation. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and said, "Are you an alien?"
This time Horatio did spin around, both mystified and vexed, not sure whether to strike the impudent lad or answer the inquiry, which he quite honestly didn't grasp. How could Abraxas even think his father had emigrated here when he knew the history of the Malfoy family inside and out? "Are you implying I wasn't born in Britain, that I arrived here by nefarious means?"
John-Abraxas shook his head, wanting to get up and run but not daring to. "I-I don't know what nefarious means. I only meant that I've heard people speak of those who come from the stars—from another world. You're so different, you can do so many wonderful things…" He ducked his head, waiting for the slap that didn't come.
Ah, now he understood. It was the boy inside his son, the muggle who had the question. He often forgot now that Abraxas hadn't always been Abraxas. He made a mental note to demand that the child study the history of the Malfoy family, learn it thoroughly. In answer to the query, did he come from another world? Certainly he didn't belong in the boy's wretched muggle pigsty! Witches and wizards did, indeed, have a world apart from the muggles now, which was for the best of all involved.
Choosing his words carefully, Horatio answered, "I suppose you could say I am from another world. Does that perturb you?"
Smiling excitedly, John-Abraxas blurted, "No, Father, I think it's brilliant!" A troubled shadow passed over his face. "I only wish I could be as well."
Horatio stepped several paces closer, and the young man flinched, though he looked up expectantly at the older man. "You are my son, Abraxas. You belong with me. Don't forget it again or I'll be forced to punish you."
"I won't," said the boy hurriedly, overtly pleased. "I'll always be the best son I can be."
"I know." He did know it, he felt it in a way he'd never felt it with the original Abraxas. Spinning on his heel, his boots clicked over the floor, and he stopped at the section of genealogy tomes. He removed a large, unwieldy volume from the shelf and slapped it onto the table; puffs of dust wafted up. "You will study this history of our family until you can recite it forward and back. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly clear, Father." He pulled the book over to himself and opened the cover; the first thing he saw was the Malfoy crest, the same one decorating the spot over the fireplace mantle. One finger lightly traced over the image. Perhaps when Father left he'd draw the crest on the wall of his bedroom and paint it in with the oil paints in the room across the hall, then Father could see that he had some talent, too. "It's beautiful. I can't wait to get started."
"Not now," said Horatio, closing the book with one hand and shoving it to the center of the table. "I thought perhaps you'd like to go outside with me for a bit, look at the ocean with me."
Stunned, John-Abraxas merely gaped at him before finding his tongue. "You mean it? I'm allowed outside?"
"Only when I'm here to take you," explained Horatio, simultaneously amused and heartened at the unbridled, grateful joy over such a small thing. Yes, this Abraxas was definitely an improvement over the other, as long as he wasn't required to perform magic. "When I'm gone, you will still not be able to leave the house. In the future, if I find you trustworthy, I may relax the boundaries to permit you free access to the lawn and gardens, though the wards will not permit you to go any further."
"Thank you, Father! Thank you!" John-Abraxas leapt out of his seat, and almost threw himself at the man to hug him before remembering that to touch without permission carried a stiff penalty, and the wizard had never indicated that he'd like a hug. "You've been very kind to me."
"That's what a father is for," said Horatio, smirking. "To teach you that good behaviour leads to rewards. Come along." He gestured toward the doorway, and the youth sprinted for it.
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Nicolette sighed under her breath as Thalia came up too suddenly from a seated position and the book on her head tumbled to the floor onto her shoe, crushing her toe and causing the poor girl to wince. Biting her lip, Thalia limped to the coffee table, picked up the book where it had bounced, and held it against her chest.
"Slowly, dear. You must always make unhurried, deliberate movements that accentuate grace," Nicolette urged her. Even her speech came out in a slow, measured cadence.
Thalia's lower lip had begun to tremble. "I can't do it! We've been practicing for hours, and I still drop it almost every time!"
"This is your first session, it's natural to make plenty of mistakes." Nicolette walked over, took the heavy tome from her, and carefully balanced it on the young woman's head. "You're getting married in less than three weeks. You don't want to embarrass your husband-to-be, do you? Everyone will be watching you, Thalia—everyone. Now straighten your back and try again."
Shoving down the tears, Thalia stood up a bit straighter, threw her shoulders back, and began the laborious trek from the coffee table to the armchair.
"Arms at your sides like a lady, not stretched out like a circus performer," Nicolette reminded her. "Glide, glide; that's very good. Now gently turn and sit, keeping your back stiff, your head erect. Excellent!" She so hated to go on, but until Thalia had a grasp on this, it must be done. They hadn't a lot of time to waste. Unfortunately, her parents hadn't seen fit to imbue in her the necessary refinements for the station in life she was being thrust into. "Now rise, keeping your chin up, using your hands on the armrests to prevent a jerking motion."
Thalia followed the directions dutifully, and when she reached a full standing position with the book still firmly in place, she squealed with elation, wheeling to face Nicolette, and the book went spinning off her head once more. "Oops."
"What did you do wrong there?"
"I turned too quickly," Thalia parroted. "I must use slow movements." She sighed, but brightened to remember she had indeed managed to get through the whole series this time without a mistake—till the end, anyway. She snatched up the book again, hope renewed.
"Let's do one more set, then move on to formal dining," said Nicolette. That was one area the girl excelled at, where her inelegance (code word for 'clumsiness') didn't shine through. Besides, it was getting late, nearly time for dinner anyway.
The young witch had just begun pacing the floor again when an amused voice from the doorway said, "Having fun, love?"
"Brax!" Thalia spun round at the voice of her beloved; the heavy volume slid off her head to smack into a vase, sending it smashing to the floor.
With a tight-lipped smile, Nicolette murmured, "You'll repair that now, won't you, son? Must you interrupt while we're working?"
Abashed, Abraxas took out his wand and quickly repaired the vase, then threw an arm about Thalia's waist while mumbling, "Sorry, Mother. I only now got back from work and heard Thalia was here. Can you blame me for wanting to see her?" He planted a quick kiss on his fiancée's mouth.
"No, I can't," admitted his mother, coming over to give him a hug. "She's been trying very hard and is making progress."
"Thank you, Nicolette," said Thalia, beaming.
"She's perfect to me. I don't know why you torture her with all this grace nonsense," said Abraxas. Leaning in to her ear, he confided, "They make us all do it from the time we're children. Damned annoying."
Thalia snickered. "Maybe they don't want you to look like country bumpkins like me."
Taking her face in his hands, he said in a very solemn tone, "Don't ever say that. I love you exactly the way you are."
"But the rest of the world will mock me—especially your world," Thalia responded, every bit as serious. "I don't want to give them an opportunity to poke fun at either of us."
"Master Abraxas?" said Fancy, hopping in agitation from one foot to the other. "Master, a man at the door saying he needs talking to you. Does Master wanting Fancy to make him goes away?"
"No, thank you, Fancy." He kissed Thalia again and turned to the door, disgruntled. Probably another shopkeeper that Father hadn't bothered to pay! He thought he'd got through all the bills and invoices, but perhaps he'd missed one.
Grumbling under his breath, Abraxas stalked to the door. When he arrived he put on a pleasant smile before opening it, to see a smooth-faced wizard of about his own age and build, longish brown hair swept back and secured in a leather cord, his clothing seemingly new and immaculate but of a style Abraxas was unaccustomed to.
"May I help you, Mister….?"
"Loggins. Silas Loggins." He appeared to be studying to the other wizard, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he added, "And I take it you're Abraxas Malfoy?"
"Yes." Abraxas inclined his head slightly, then stepped outside, peering intently. The accent pegged the man as American, which meant he wasn't here to collect on a debt. Since Abraxas was acquainted with no Americans, he wasn't here for a social call. In fact, the only association he had with the States at all was Thalia, and she'd only spent a few years there. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
"Forgive me, this is a difficult thing to do," said Loggins, involuntarily gazing about at the great expanse of property in the front yard. He brought his gaze back. "As you may have guessed by now, I'm American. I knew Thalia in Washington, we went to school together."
"I see," said Abraxas guardedly.
The man produced a copy of a newspaper from his robes and handed it to Malfoy. It wasn't the Daily Prophet, though certainly one comparable. A large photo of Abraxas and Thalia, side by side, smiling, stared back at him. "I saw this in the society pages. I had to come and let you know."
Abraxas lowered the paper, grey eyes steely. "Let me know what?"
"You can't marry Thalia because she's already promised to me."
(A/N: Be advised that some ppl have not been receiving all the update notices, so make sure you have read all the chapters up to now. Also, I'd like to bring to your attention that the only payment I receive for all my work in writing these stories comes in the form of your reviews. Please don't be stingy. Thank you. :D)